With These Hands, I Give You Music
by Lugubrious DBB
Summary: Elsa reflects upon a previously unrevealed sacrifice she was forced to make in order to protect the world from herself during her thirteen years in isolation. A side story in my "Voices" universe, set between "The Sins of the Father" and "The Storm Rages On."


**With These Hands, I Give You Music**

**A _Voices _Universe Side Story**

_Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to stay silent. _— _Victor Hugo_

* * *

It had been years since she had allowed herself to enter this room in the palace, years since she had dared glance upon the room's copious furnishings, its meticulously-organized yet welcoming layout. As she stood there, in that very moment, she could not describe just _why _she felt she needed to be in this chamber. All she knew was that something had whispered to her, guided her, like the gentle caress of a summer breeze upon one's neck.

She cast her eyes upon the exceptional artwork that peppered the walls, each painting a masterwork of technique and expression. Some of the finest art in the entire Continent could be found in this very room, a testament to the value her fathers had placed upon Man's ability to express himself.

But it was neither the paintings, nor the sculptures, that drew her attention in that instance. Rather, it was a single, solitary item resting in the center of the room that called to her, its obsidian color whispering to her to sit before it, to touch it.

Her hands trembling, she sat before the piano, not daring to allow her fingers to touch the ivory keys. For a fraction of a second, her lips curled in a slight smile, memories of a happier time dancing through her mind . . .

* * *

_"Mama! Mama!"_

_ The Queen looked to her four-year-old daughter, smiling. "Yes, Elsa?"_

_ The young girl pointed to the instrument, her ice-blue eyes full of wonder, of curiosity. "What's that?!"_

_ "That, my daughter, is a piano," the Queen said, taking her daughter's hand, leading her to the bench before it._

_ "A piano?" Elsa looked up at her mother, a hundred questions threatening to roll off of her tongue. "What's a piano? What does it do, Mama? Is it a toy?"_

_ "No, dearest," the Queen said, sitting at the bench, helping Elsa to sit next to her. "It is an instrument. It makes music."_

_ "Music . . .?" Now Elsa was fascinated. "How? How does it work, Mama? What do you do?"_

_"Watch." The Queen brought her fingers to the keys, deliberately positioning them before depressing the white and black levers. Instantly, the stillness in the room was dispelled by a sound that Elsa had never heard before. She had heard music countless times before, of course; every time there was a celebration in the palace, musicians were brought in to entertain the guests. That music was loud, boisterous, energetic, lighthearted. Elsa thought she knew precisely what music was._

_ But as she listened to the sounds emerging from the obsidian giant, Elsa realized that music could be something else entirely. For the music that came forth at her mother's command was quiet, reflective, personal. It was as if the music _was _her mother, was what her mother would be if represented solely by sound. The young Princess sat in enraptured silence as her mother continued to summon the melodious tones, minutes feeling like hours as she lost herself in the beauty of the sound . . ._

_ The instant the music stopped, Elsa's consciousness was forcibly returned to the moment. "That . . . That was _beautiful, _Mama!"_

_The Queen turned to her daughter, wrapping her arm around her, pulling her next to her on the piano bench. "Thank you. I'm very glad you liked it."_

_Elsa's brow furrowed, her face caught up in a look of complete concentration, as if thinking about a vitally important decision. Finally, she looked at her mother intently. "I wanna learn how to play the piano. Just like you, Mama."_

_The Queen laughed, kissing her daughter's forehead. "Then I'll teach you. But you won't learn how to play just like me."_

"_I . . . I won't?" Elsa was suddenly crestfallen. Did her mother not think she could learn? Was something wrong with her?_

"_No, dearest," the Queen said, taking her daughter's hands, ignoring the slight chill that ran through Elsa's fingers, placing them on the keys. "That's the best thing about music. You don't have to play like anyone else. Once you learn how to play, you can let _your _voice come through the keys. Only Elsa can play like Elsa."_

_The Queen elevated her daughter's wrist slightly. "Now, curl your fingertips just a little bit, and watch what I do." She played a simple five note scale, showing Elsa exactly how to properly depress the keys. "Now, you try."_

_Eagerly, Elsa echoed her mother's melody, looking to her the moment she stopped._

"_Very good," the Queen praised, inwardly surprised at how Elsa's technique was already flawless on her first attempt. _Perhaps she has a natural aptitude for this, _she thought. _This will be wonderful! _"Now, try it again with your left hand . . ."_

* * *

The light in the room was gradually dimming as the sun outside the window slowly descended beneath the far-off outline of the western mountains. Elsa rose from the piano bench, lit a candle resting on the mantle, carried it to the piano, sitting before it once more.

_Why are you still here? _she asked herself. _It is getting late. Anna and Alúvelin will be wondering where you are. _A wave of shame ran over her at the thought of how she was acting toward her long-lost sister. _She's come to visit you from all the way in the mountains, and you're hiding in here? What is _wrong _with you?!_

Still, every time she tried to stand, to leave the presence of the black furnishing, something held her back. Grimacing, shuddering, she closed her eyes as her memory revisited some of the other events that had transpired in this room . . .

* * *

_She practiced diligently day after day without fail. Her mother never needed to remind her, never needed to pull her away from another activity. If anything, the Queen would have to set limits on the amount of time Elsa was permitted to play the piano; if it was up to the young Princess, she would never have left the music room._

_ Her technique, her musicianship progressed by leaps and bounds. Despite her mere eight years of age, she had mastered many of the masterworks by the Continent's greatest composers. Works that gave professional pianists nightmares were child's play to Elsa. Her ability to sight read, to play a work nearly flawlessly on first glance, was without equal. She loved music, lived music, craved music. It gave her purpose, discipline, allowed her to express that which was otherwise indescribable._

_ Until . . . _it _happened._

_ She did not protest when her father told her she could not leave her room to play the piano, at least not until she was able to better control the increasingly unpredictable chill within her being. She accepted his decision; it was her penance, her sentence for what she had almost done to her beloved sister. She didn't dare leave her room; the thick wooden doors barricading her inside were the world's only protection from the monster, the freak of nature that dwelt within._

_ Years passed, slowly, interminably, her misery at her isolation compounded by the increasing harshness of the accusations that whirled throughout her mind, like a hornet's buzz in her ear. She kept the gloves her father gave her ever upon her hands, fearful of the unnatural torrent of ice that would be unleashed if she dared to remove them._

_ Yet, despite her terror, every so often she would take them off just for a few moments, laying her fingers on the hard wood of her bedroom floor, curling them slightly as her mother had taught her. She would run her fingers up and down over the floor, her eyes shut, her mind hearing the music her fingers would conjure if only . . . if only . . . _

_ One night, when she was fourteen, she could take it no longer. She waited until well into the late hours, when no one would possibly be awake. Her glove-encased hand reached for the doorknob, shaking with a combination of exhilaration and trepidation. _

_ Her mind battled with itself over her course of action. _Don't do this! Be the good girl! Conceal! Conceal!

No! You have to! Just this once!

_Gritting her teeth, she opened the door, nervously looking down the long corridor, making certain she would not be spotted. Satisfied, she tiptoed down the stairs, silently crossing the halls to the room she knew so very, very well._

_ Hardly daring to breathe, she opened the door, nearly crying with happiness as she saw it was exactly as she remembered it. Quietly closing the door behind her, she moved to her old friend, running her fingers over the ivory and black levers. Her entire body shaking with anticipation, she sat before it, closing her eyes as she rested her fingers in the familiar posture as she began to play._

_ Music began to flow into her ears once more: real, true, unimagined music. With a will of their own, her fingers launched into one of her favorite compositions, her right hand moving up and down the keyboard in a dazzling series of scales._

_ The music suddenly stopped as her fingers lost contact with the keys. Opening her eyes, she realized the problem. She could not control her digits while wearing the gloves; without contact with her skin, she could not _feel _the keys, could not form the connection that made her and her instrument one being. She hesitated, terrified of the consequences if anything went wrong. Yet she wanted to make music so desperately . . ._

_ The gloves were on the floor before she had the chance to change her mind. Refocusing, she returned her fingers to the keys, smiling at the familiar, welcome sensation. Clearing her mind, she began again. This time, the music flowed from her as she remembered it, every note perfectly aligned in time. Her worry quickly turned to exuberance as she played and played and played, her fingers as accurate as they had ever been._

_ Something was suddenly wrong. Confused, she opened her eyes, gasping in disbelief. A thin layer of frost formed across the keys, making it more and more difficult for her to maintain control. As her fingers continued to move the frost grew thicker and thicker, slowly coating the keys, making the action of the instrument sluggish, unresponsive until—_

_ She finally stopped altogether, her happiness now horribly twisted into despair. The entire keyboard was coated in a thick layer of ice, rendering it entirely unusable. The instrument that had once been her close friend now seemed to stare at her harshly, casting judgment upon her for daring to sully its magnificence with her impurity. Not wanting to believe what she was seeing, she pounded the keys, begging with all her might for them to move again, but the ice held firm, mocking her, silently laughing at her._

_ "No!" It was too much; her one hope for something, _anything _to remind her of her humanity was now taken from her, just like her freedom, her happiness, her sister. Unable to bear it, she fell to the floor, not even trying to contain the tears that flowed._

You don't deserve to make music! _the voices—the insidious, omnipresent voices—cackled in her mind. _Music is for those who are human . . . who are beautiful! Not for monsters like you!

_ "I'm not a monster!" she whispered, covering her ears. "Please, just go away."_

Yes, you are! Don't you DARE deny it! _A sinister laugh rang in her mind. _If you weren't a monster, you wouldn't have frozen the piano! You wouldn't have hurt your sister! Now, what are you?!

_Defeated, dejected, exhausted, Elsa closed her eyes. "A monster."_

And do monsters ever get to be happy?

_"No." Elsa could barely muster the strength to speak. "They don't."_

_ She returned to her room, swearing to herself she would never try to make music again, never try to be happy, for what she had done . . . what she was was entirely unforgivable, unacceptable, unlovable . . . _

* * *

The door to the music room opened, jolting Elsa from her reverie.

"And this is our music room. It hasn't been used in a long time, but—"

_Oh, no! _Elsa panicked as she realized Anna must be giving Alúvelin a tour of the palace. _They can't see me here! I'm not supposed to be—_

The door swung open, Anna chattering away as she led the Empress behind her. Her voice stopped suddenly as she saw: "Elsa?"

"I . . . I was just . . . I mean, I was going to meet you, but I . . ." Her face turned red with embarrassment, her hands clutching themselves of their own accord.

A knowing smile came upon Anna's face. "Elsa, why are you in here? I mean, really? Is it because . . . Because you want to play again?"

Elsa looked at her younger sister in astonishment. "You . . . You remember that I—"

"Of course I do!" Anna turned to Alúvelin. "I used to sit just outside the door when Elsa would practice. It was so beautiful! You should have heard it, Alúvelin."

The Queen shook her head. "That's . . . That's impossible. You couldn't remember! You were only—"

Anna cut her off, crossing to the piano, holding her hand. "I made sure I never forgot the good memories of us." She cleared her throat. "You know, when you locked yourself in your room, I used to dream about your music and hope that, one day, you would come out again and share it with me. Even if it was just for a few minutes . . ."

She looked Elsa in the eye, her face full of longing. "Please, Elsa. Would you play again? I know I'd love to hear it. Wouldn't you, Alúvelin?"  
Elsa's half-sister was by her side, her red hair shimmering in the candlelight. "Of course I would. Please." She smiled. "It would make my visit here so much more worthwhile if you would . . ."

Sighing, Elsa sat at the bench once again, her fingers shaking as they rose rested just above the keys. "The last time I tried this," she whispered, "I . . . I couldn't control myself. I froze the entire keyboard . . ."

"But you're stronger now," Anna said. "You aren't afraid anymore. You have us. Just play the way I know you can."

Elsa took a deep breath, trying to force the worry from her body. Closing her eyes, she let her fingers touch the keys for the first time in years. She flinched as she made contact, as if she expected the instrument to reject her. _I can't do this! It's been too long! I can't! I don't even know where to start!_

She was ready to open her eyes, to apologize to her sisters, to explain that it had been too long, that she didn't remember how to play anymore, when a strange feeling suddenly settled upon her. Before she realized what she was doing, her hands shifted, her fingers pressed down upon the keys of their own volition. She gasped slightly as she realized what she was playing: it was the Belvesten Sonata, one of the most difficult pieces ever written for the instrument. She knew she should be petrified, that she should stop, that she couldn't even attempt to play a piece of this difficulty after such a long hiatus, but she found she simply couldn't stop.

Time lost all meaning for Elsa as she thrust her entire consciousness into the music. Her hands darted across the keyboard, leaping from one octave to the next as she allowed the glorious tones of the piano to wash over her. Her heart fluttered momentarily as she approached the final cadenza; it was the most-feared cadenza in all the repertoire, for both hands had to cross and recross each other time after time while seamlessly jumping across three full octaves. She had never performed it perfectly before; something had always tripped her up. Yet now, for the first time in years, she felt no fear, no worry, no trepidation of any kind. All she knew was exhilaration, that she had nothing to hide. All the walls and barriers she had so carefully constructed for herself were crashing down around her, exposing her very soul to all who could hear.

With a final flurry of movement, she brought her fingers across the entire length of the keyboard before leaping back to the bass register, letting the final chord ring with the deep, rich sound that only the lowest strings of the instrument could produce. The piece concluded, she opened her eyes, turning to her sisters.

Anna and Alúvelin were speechless. The magnificence of their sister's playing was beyond what words could describe. All they could do was point to the piano, their jaws agape in amazement.

Elsa smiled slightly as she saw a light dusting of snow sprinkled across the instrument's body. "I . . . I guess I let myself go a little more than I intended."

Before she could say anything else, she felt the air in her lungs evaporate as both of her sisters held her tightly. "Whoa! Try not . . . to smother me here!"

"Sorry!" Anna and Alúvelin pulled back, slightly embarrassed by their enthusiastic reactions.

"That was . . . That was just . . . I've never heard music like that before!" Alúvelin shook her head. "My people . . . We have music, of course, but nothing like _that_ . . ."  
"It was perfect!" Anna was beaming proudly at her sister. "Just like I knew it would be! I _told _you you could do it!"

Elsa nodded. "Thank you for . . . for believing in me. For encouraging me to try again."

"Hey, it's what I'm here for," Anna said, playfully punching her sister's shoulder. "Now, can you play another piece? Please!"

Elsa suddenly felt self-conscious. "It's getting late . . . I don't know if . . ."

"Please!"

Both sisters looked at her with pleading eyes.

Elsa smiled. "All right. If you liked that last piece, listen to _this_!"

The room filled with music once more as the three stayed long into the night, relishing the joy of being in each other's company, enjoying the depth of emotion too deep for words, yet perfectly expressed in music.

* * *

**In another universe, in another time . . .**

The man sat up in his bed, his eyes darting wildly about his unkempt abode. He was not unacquainted with disrupted sleep; it was his typical state of slumber, the reason he chose to prolong his nightly sojourn into oblivion for as long as possible.

His eyes fell upon his desk, his desk piled high with bits of half-eaten food, with sheet after sheet of manuscript paper, evidence of the frustrating pattern of fits and starts that had plagued him for the past two weeks. He had worked his entire life, struggled, to express the highest possible form of his beloved art, pressing on despite criticism, despite derision, despite the increasingly painful thorn in his flesh he had been forced to endure. Defiantly, he refused to give in, challenging even the Almighty Himself over the deprival of the one sense that was more precious to him than his own life. Still, before finally retiring the night before, he had finally given thought to the possibility that he had already achieved the pinnacle of his career. He was not a young man any longer, and this was most certainly a young man's profession.

But the dream! _No, _he corrected himself as he fought to untangle himself from the cobwebs that were his bed sheets. _Not a dream. A vision!_

It had been unlike anything he had experienced before. In the midst of his slumber, he had suddenly been transported . . . somewhere else, someplace perfect that reminded him so much of his beloved countryside, but far more beautiful than he could possibly imagine it could be.

Without warning, _she _had appeared before him. He had never seen her before, but her ice-blue eyes, her long platinum locks, her kindly smile betrayed a grace and elegance unlike any he had ever witnessed in a woman before.

_My brother. _She spoke to him in a voice so full of warmth, so full of love that it had taken a moment for him to comprehend that he had actually _heard _her voice with the ears he had thought were long since dead.

_My brother, _she continued. _We have never met, and we never will meet again. I am from a world far from your own. Yet I come to you now on behalf of the same Almighty Father that created both of us. _

She stepped forward, taking his hand, smiling once more at the astonished expression upon his face. _We have so much in common, you and I. Both of us share the same passion for music, yet we have both faced obstacles inhibiting our ability to share that love._

She placed her hand upon his cheek, his dazed mind marveling at how her touch was both cold yet inviting. _Relinquish your anger at our Father, my brother. We . . . all Men of all Creation . . . all of us are brothers, his beloved children. He never gives us anything to face that we are incapable of handling. Trust me, my brother. Let go of your hate. Then, and only then, will you know what you must share with the generations that will come after you . . . that will enshrine your name in immortality for your brilliance._

His ears suddenly heard a sound he had not truly heard in years: the sound of low string instruments playing a simple, yet somehow profound melody. They began gently, almost inaudibly, as if waiting for him to approve before they continued.

"What . . . What is this?" he whispered.

She smiled at him once more. _This is my gift to you. This is _your _music, my brother. I have simply helped you to finally find it. Listen to it. Let it guide you. _She took his hand, leading him to the piano that had suddenly appeared before them. _Key of D major, on the mediant. Do you hear it now?_

As his right hand touched the keys, he began to move his fingers, hearing the low strings mimic his every move. The melody swelled up and down, rising and falling in tessitura as it gained an intensity he had never felt before. As the melody reached its conclusion it began again, a countermelody forming beneath it as more and more instruments joined in. Each repetition brought new accompaniment, new orchestration, new points of imitation, every note somehow the _only _possible note that could exist in that space. Just as the music reached its apex, it stopped, silence falling upon him once more.

He stared at her in disbelief. "What just happened?"

She took his hand one more time. _The rest is up to you. Go. Create your masterwork!_

And before he could thank her, before he could ask for her name, he was awake, stumbling, bumbling in exhilaration as he rushed to his desk, grabbing the closest pen he could find, searching frantically for his sketchbook. _Where is it? Where is it?_

He cried out in relief as he saw it lying on the far side of the room; he vaguely recalled hurling it there in despair the previous night in one of his fits of anger that accompanied his creative blockages. As he reached for it, his eyes were drawn to a familiar book lying beneath it, its pages open to a text he recognized all too well.

He felt his breath stop for an instant. This could not be a coincidence, he told himself. It was simply too perfect! His hands shaking, he reached for the book, bringing the familiar text to his face, one line in particular catching his attention. "'Alle Menschen warden Brüder.'" _All Men shall become brothers _. . .

He brought his sketchbook and the book of poetry to his brow, unable to believe what was mind now churning with idea after idea, he brushed all relics of his fits and starts from his desk, opening his sketchbook. _Voices, _he thought to himself. _No one has ever written for voices in a . . . _

Glancing upward, he nodded respectfully. _Whoever you are . . . wherever you are from . . . thank you!_ Turning his attention to his sketchbook, he began notating the melody that had been so crystal clear in his mind mere moments ago. Having completed that task, he brought his pen to the top of the page, scrawling three simple words—_Symphony No. 9_—before beginning the familiar ritual of grappling, struggling, fighting to create that which he most longed to express in his music: perfection and inevitability.

* * *

_Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy. — Ludwig van Beethoven_

* * *

**AN: This was most definitely an indulgence on my part, but this scenario just appeared in my mind, I simply HAD to write this. Hopefully, there is something of redeeming value in it beyond simple satisfaction of my own whimsy. Please read and review, and feel free to read the other stories set in my _Voices _universe in order to understand the references to OCs and certain situations.**


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